Search

I got another job interview. It was with the Fredricks Independent School District, tutoring a class of students who have aspirations to go to college, but lack the emotional or financial support. I’ll be supplying neither of these (kids are gross and dress poorly), but I will be showing the students where they can find them.

—Begin Narrative—

I really need to nail this interview. I need to nail it because I can only handle so much rejection before I start hanging around the lady’s areas of country clubs, desperately trying to find an older woman who’s interested in using a young buck for six to eight years of loveless sex before she dies, leaving me with her vast fortune and a family that loathes me.

I arrive at Fredricks High School and survey the building. I walk up the steps to the entryway. It’s locked.

A crackled voice from my right says, “Please state your name.”

For whatever reason, this reminds me of a castle wall. My mind is immediately thrust into the medieval ages.

“I am Kyle, son of Michael. I hail from the great land of Waxahachie, TX, with it’s lush greenery, and king and hospitable populous. I seek employment within your walls. Please, if you would only bless me with the honor of an audience with the Lady Rodriguez, head of ye olde Department of Human Resources.” There’s a slight pause as I bow to the intercom box. Then, a voice responds.

“I can’t hear you. You have to press the ‘Talk’ button.”

I shake my head and sigh, then press the ‘Talk’ button. “I’m Kyle Irion. I’m here for a job interview with Mrs. Rodriguez.”

“It’s unlocked,” the voice says.

There’s a click from the doorway. I open the door and walk into the front office. I sign in and the receptionist presents me with with an ID badge, a complimentary Fredricks High School pen and matching lanyard.

I’m directed to Mrs. Rodriguez’s room. It’s doorway runs perpendicular to a stairwell five yards across the hallway.

“Kyle?” She says as I open the door to her office.

“Mrs. Rodriguez,” I say. “How are you?”

“I’m well. And you?”

“Okay, I guess. I ran too much yesterday and now I think I have something like diaper rash between my butt cheeks,” I say. People at job interviews appreciate honesty.

“Oh,” Mrs. Rodriguez says, her eyes bouncing around her desk, then back to me. “Well, running is very good exercise.”

“She tried to McSteal my order” I say, winking. “So I McBeat the shit out of her.”

“I thought you were at a Wendy’s,” Mrs. Rodriguez said.

“I was.” Mrs. Rodriguez stares at me in silence for a few seconds.

“Not McDonald’s?”

“No. Not McDonald’s,” I say, slightly confused. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Because you…” she pauses and cocks her head slightly. “Nevermind. Let’s move on.”

“Let’s.”

The interview goes smoothly. I only say the f-word one time, but I was repeating something somebody else was saying, so I think that makes it okay.

“Well, Kyle. I think it’s safe to say that the position is yours if you want it.”

“Does it pay money?”

“Of course it does. Why wouldn’t it?”

“To be honest, ma’am, the last job I had, at Wal-Mart, paid primarily in insults to my intelligence and constant assaults on my personal joy. It also paid in whatever rotten produce I could carry out in my apron.” She laughs softly. I stare her coldly in the face.

Mrs. Rodriguez clears her throat. “We pay cash here. Don’t worry. Thank you for meeting with me. I’ll call you sometime next week to let you know when to come in.”

“Hey, is it cool if I take next week off?”

“What? Why?”

“Trying to catch up on Dexter. You know how it is.” I smile and do a stabbing motion with my hand, then a pelvic thrust to seal the deal.

“I don’t think I do. I’ll see you next Wednesday at 8:15 am.”

“You sure?” I ask, pelvic thrusting one more time in case she missed the last one.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

I shrug my shoulders, light a fire cracker and throw it into the cafeteria. “See you then, I guess.”

I start my new job next week.

Love,

Kyle.

P.S. Yea, I had no idea that this was a letter, either, but it is. And like God, I work in mysterious ways. Or I don’t work at all. One of the two.

Advertisements

Share this:

Like this:

When I saw that this would be my 100th post, I was excited and a bit daunted. I really wanted to do something special for the 100th post, but I had no idea what. After a while I decided that first, no matter what I route I took with the entry, I’d start with a special thank you to my friend Jules Litke, who talked me into starting a blog in the first place. Although she once described the blog as “like an episode of the Simpsons–the end addressing an impossibly different subject than the beginning,” there was still an obvious support. Thanks, Jules.

I’d also like to thank Dr. JP Internet–inventor of the internet. Without you, none of this would possible, and so many 13 year old men would have retained their innocence so much longer.

In preparation for this stupendous occasion, Editor and I took a walk through some of our favorite blogs. At first, we were going to do a retrospective, but that felt so tired and a little cliche. We want to move forward, think forward, write forward. We want change. Who better to see about change than President Barack Obama? So, after many, many phone calls, e-mails, and background checks, the White House decided to let us come by for an interview.

Editor and I arrive by way of police escort to the White House. We pass through the iron gates. It isn’t until now that it really hits me–I’m at the White House. I mean, Mike Tysonhas been here. I wonder if he’s hiding somewhere inside. At this moment of recognizing where I am, I cannot help but recognize the inverse–where I have been. I think back to my childhood, dressed as Spiderman, running around in the driveway with my sister, holding a large piece of paper that read “AUTOGRAPHS FROM THE SON OF SPIDERMAN!” I think back the sixth grade, kissing a girl for the first time when she wanted it too. I think back to high school, and all the time I spent at Whataburger with my friends. Then I think to just last week, when I woke up at noon, watched a movie that I hated because I couldn’t reach the remote, put on pants at four o clock in the afternoon, watched a three hours of The Hills, drank a couple of glasses of wine and fell asleep under my desk. I shiver.

We pull into to the guest entry area of the White House.

“Mr. Irion?” a security guard asks as he opens the door.

“This is he.” What? Why am I talking like that?

“Welcome to the White House,” the guard says.

I hold out my hand like I saw that girl on Princess Diaries do when she was being led from her car. The security guard merely stands and looks at my hand, and then to me.

“Welcome to the White House, sir.”

“Get out of the car, Kyle,” Editor says from behind me.

“Shut the FUCK up, Editor.” I turn so Editor can see me. “I’m serious. Do not ruin this for me.” He sits back a bit and I get out of the car. I approach the guard and lean in, speaking at just above a whisper. “On the way in, that guy looked really nervous. He was sweating bullets and looking around a lot. Then he showed me a gun and winked at me.”

“Please continue into the building, sir,” the guard said. “Welcome,” the guard says to Editor. Editor smiles and thanks the guard.

To calm my nerves, I had roughly six of seven shots from my flask on the drive in. As we approach the front door it seems as if they all hit at once. I enter the White House drunk as hell.

Our first meeting in front of local media. He's apologizing for me profusely.

We’re immediately met by a White House Aide.

“Mr. Irion, right this way, please,” He says.

The White House is immaculate–perhaps one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. There are plush couches without any cat hair, beautiful vaulted ceilings and paneled walls, also without any cat hair. For a moment I consider trying to start a new White House tradition of signing the walls just inside the entrance, walking toward one of the panels with a red crayon in my hand (I carry crayons everywhere for just such an occasion) but reconsider this notion as a guard places himself (and a clearly visible taser) between the wall and I.

Editor and I pass through several hallways before reaching the President’s meeting area.

“Can you believe where we are?!” Editor asks.

“It’s pretty incredible. I’m glad you haven’t ruined this for me yet.” I put my hand on his shoulder and he gives me a slight smile and a knowing nod. “Let’s go rape this interview,” I say. His smile fades and it seems like he’s about to say something when I turn away and walk into the meeting area.

This one's for mom.

“All right. Just wait in here. President Obama will be with you in just a moment.” The aide turns and leaves. For a moment, Editor and I stand in the meeting room, still awestruck by the grandness of it all.

“You know how many famous dignitaries have sat in that chair?” Editor asks, referring to the chair across from the President’s.

“You know how many famous dictionaries have shat in that hair? Stop getting emotional, Editor. We have to stay focused for this. This is the biggest interview of our lives–well, your life at least. I still plan to interview God one day. After that, I want to interview the color red.”

“Kyle, you–” Editor starts, but just at this moment, the door at the north wall of the room opens and in steps President Barack Obama.

“Mr. Iron Kyle, it’s nice to finally meet you.” Obama extends his hand to me and I take it, shaking it as firmly as I can without making him think I’m trying to assert any form of dominance. I consider giving him the “wriggler” handshake, but decide against it since that sort of thing hasn’t been funny since the Truman administration. “And you must be the infamous ‘Editor,'” Barack says. “Hello.” The President motions for me to take a seat across from him. “Can I get you anything? Water?” He points to Editor and then to me. We both shake our heads no. “All right. Well then, let’s get started, shall we?”

“Shall we,” I say. Barack looks confused. “We shall–we shall,” I correct myself. I’m incredibly nervous. “So, Mr. Obama. You’re almost a year into your first term. How do you think things are going?”

I'm telling Barack about my dating history.

Barack shifts in his seat. “Coming out with guns blazing,” he says, smiling wryly. “Well, as I expected, it hasn’t been easy, but to say that the past eight or nine months have been according to plan would be a,” he pauses, “would be grossly inaccurate.”

“Blazing out with guns coming,” I say. I fucked it up again. This time, however, I just plow through. “What has gone your way, in your opinion, and what hasn’t?”

“Well certainly I would like to have been further on this health care issue–that’s one thing I wish there was more progress in. I also would have been so, so proud to get the Olympics in Chicago.”

“More like Shit-taco,” I say. I hear Editor choke out the word “no!” under his breath.

“That word you just used to describe Chicago, that’s highly inappropriate. Chicago is a beautiful city and I won’t see it disrespected.”

“Sorry. I’m really nervous. Cracking jokes is how I calm down–well, that and shot after shot of whiskey,” I say. Barack lightens a bit.

“A whiskey man? Would you like to have a glass? I have a great eighteen year vintage of Jameson’s. You like Jameson’s?”

“Absolutely!”

“Well all right then. Tammy,” He gestures toward a woman standing behind the couch Editor is sitting on. “Would you please get us three tumblers and my bottle of Jameson’s?”

“Yes sir,” she says and goes with haste to retrieve the bottle and glasses. While she is out getting the drinks, I decide to continue with some lighter questions.

“What’s the biggest perk of being president? I mean, not like ‘bestowing freedom to the world,’ or anything like that–although that is good, but what I’m talking about is like, presidential socks, or how instead of reading about a foreign reader’s stance you actually get to hear it straight from him or her.”

“Well,” Barack begins, holding his chin and smiling wryly, “I do get a lot of free stuff.” We both chuckle a bit.

“Like missiles? I bet you get a shitload of free missiles,” I say, sitting at the edge of my seat looking for all the free missiles.

“No, actually, no missiles. I did get this bottle of whiskey we’re about to drink for free, though. In fact, when you leave, you can take it with you.”

“Barack, I’m so glad I voted for you.” Just then Tammy walks in with the whiskey. “Now let’s get royally shit faced.”

Share this:

Like this:

Last week, I received a phone call from an unknown number. I half expected it to be another one of those Spanish-language sweep stakes things telling me that I had (working from a rough translation) either won a free trip or that one of my goats had gone missing. I was wrong.

“Hola. Bienvenidos.” I say. I’m not sure what the second word means.

“Robert Irion?” A woman’s voice comes from the other end of the line. I sit up in my recliner, startling my cat and spilling chili all over my crotch.

“Uh, y-yes,” I say, fumbling for words while getting Frito pie out of my loins. “He is this. No–this is he, I mean. How can I help you?”

“This is Hannah from Sally White & Associates. We received a resume from you in reference to our proof reader position.” By now, I’ve used the cat to clean up most of the chili. Cats are like rags that meow at you. “I’d like to schedule an interview with you for this upcoming Thursday,” she says. I think this girl wants to bang me.

“Sounds great. What time?” I ask.

“We have a slot at nine o’ clock.”

“Nine? Like at night?”

“In the morning.” This girl is starting to sound like a real bitch.

“OK, well–” She could sense the hesitation in my voice and quickly suggested another possible time slot, two o’ clock that same afternoon. “Very well, then.” I said.

“OK, Robert. I’ll be sending you a confirmation e-mail shortly.”

“Hey. While you’re there, why don’t you send me a pic?”

“Excuse me?”

“See you Thursday!” I hang up.

I needed to buy new clothes. I went to the local boutique in Waxahachie: JC Penney. I knew exactly what I needed because I had recently watched a documentary called The Office. Really fascinating– like the ER of the business world. It showed me that the good guys always wear dark, skinny ties and make out with the secretary. The bad guys wear short-sleeve collared shirts and part their hair in the middle. I want to be a good guy. I want to make out with the secretary. I bought a pair of charcoal, slightly pin-striped slacks, loafers, a black skinny tie, some dress socks, and a black belt (I have like ten of these at home, but they’re the kind you get for kicking ass, and wouldn’t fit in my belt loops.). I’m going to look stellar.

I try all these things on the night before and attempt to get a job from my father–just to see if I had gotten my money’s worth.

“Hello, sir.” I hold my hand out. My father, sitting in a recliner in our living room, reading by lamp light, looks up to me.

“Robert?” That’s what my dad calls me. Robert is short for “Colossus.” It’s also long for “Bob,” “Rob,” “Bert,” or “Obe.”

“Father. I’d like a job. I feel I’m more than qualified.”

“Yea? What makes you qualified?” He takes off his reading glasses and turns to me. “Yesterday, I called the house from work and you said you were watching your fish, trying to see if you could tell which one loved you more.”

“Dad, that’s science. That’s science work.” My father lets out a single, mocking laugh and puts his glasses back on.

“Son, the only thing you’re qualified to do is act as a constant reminder of the Porsche I could have bought with the money I wasted on your education.”

“So, I got the job?” My dad looks up at me, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. He shakes his head and returns to his book.

“Yea, son. You got the job. God in heaven, you got the job.”

Share this:

Like this:

Tuesday I had a job interview with the CIA. I drove up to the CIA Dallas office, apprehensive yet hopeful. I put on my Mavs Fan For Life t-shirt, turn my Cowboys hat backwards on my head, throw on my Rangers jacket and blow my nose on my Dallas Stars hoodie and began the walk to the offices. I wanted to look full of spirit for my interview. I have to change though, when the men at the door say that what I’m wearing isn’t appropriate attire for a formal appointment, so I go back to my car and put on my suit. I look fantastic.

“Hello. I’m here for my interview.” I say, nervously. My back and legs are covered in a cold sweat– my crotch, several small drops of urine. In my stomach, there are butterflies. Probably because of the nervousness–but more likely because of the handful of butterflies I ate out of the flower beds adjacent to the sidewalk. I thought eating them would give me positive, butterfly-like energy. It didn’t. It gave me the runs and feelings of guilt and shame that I haven’t experienced since that one time I yelled out “Hey everybody! Wait for the hilarious bloopers!” at the end of “the Passion of the Christ.”

“Who are you here to see, young man?” The receptionist asks me. God, they’re already trying mind games with me. ‘Who am I here to see?’ Are they kidding me? I want to reach out and open palm slap this woman, but I won’t. No. I’ll do ’em one better. I’ll beat her mentally. No, I’m too scared.

“I’m here to see…the government?” I put my two hands up in order to make the “me no know” motion. She laughs. I think she wants to have sex with me.

“What kind of business do you have here, sir?” She seems impatient. This hurts my feelings a little bit, mostly because the eating of the butterflies has made me very, very sensitive.

“I have a job interview,” I say.

“Ok. That’s fine. If you’ll just have a seat, Major Peters will be out any moment.”

“Thank you.” At this, I lift up the pen that is chained to the desk and, in a manner that can only be described as ‘sextreme,’ wrap the chain around my pointer finger and make a jacking off motion with the pen. Then I rip it off the desk at the point of climax, and with the essence of cool I lean over and say “…Oops…”

We bone.

Approximately 15 minutes after I ejaculate I am asked into a small room by a Major Peters. He’s a nice man–tall, clean cut, eyes stern yet inviting, as if he knows that everyone he’s looking at has something important to do. I automatically hate him.

“So, Mr. Irion, I see you applied to be an OOR officer overseas.”

“Yes sir. I would very much value my time in the Gaygency.” I snicker.

“Excuse me?” He said. He’s still smiling, but with a tinge of confusion.

“Gaygency. Remember? From ‘For Kyle the Bell Tolls.’ How many people called you guys about my job?”

“P…nobody. Mr. Irion, nobody called about your employment here. And I have no idea what ‘For Kyle the Bell Tolls’ is.” I burst out laughing at the point of someone not having read my material. I’m laughing almost to the point of hysterics. My gut starts to hurt. I spit up 3 butterflies.

Share this:

Like this:

Recently, I’ve been notified that sometimes people, old people, have to get jobs in order to make what my father lovingly refers to as “money.” I’ve never had a need for money. All my expenses have been paid through an intricate system of bartering and a unique economic strategy I call “stealing.”

When I went to college, I decided I wanted to pick a degree that would almost automatically ensure me six figures or more of dollars a year (Sorry, I’m still getting used to using money cents terms in my life.). Anyway, the major I ended up picking was English, because I knew that Ernest Hemingway was rich as hell and he went on boats and did big game hunting. That sounded perfect–just what I wanted to do. The cruel joke was revealed to me two weeks ago, when I went to a local publisher, handed them a manuscript of my first novel, “Kyle’s Alright: The Kyle Irion story, with a foreward by Maury Povich.” I then patiently waited to receive my boat. After twenty or so minutes of standing silently at the front desk, coughing to receive attention, then looking away as if I hadn’t, I asked the woman where my “damn money boat” was. She looked at me, confused. I told her that authors get money, usually in increments of large, unwieldy piles, for their work. She laughed. I growled. She looked nervous and backed away from me. I looked hungry and stepped toward the desk. However, I was already leaning on it, so all I could really do was lean forward slightly. After several uncomfortable seconds, I backed away. It was here that she told me that manuscripts had to be accepted and then published and then enjoyed by several thousand readers before I could have anything close to Hemingway-esque glory. I asked her what about the guy who wrote Goosebumps, can I just get what he got? I could not.

Have you ever seen me cry? If you said yes to this question, consider yourself marked. If you said no, believe me, it’s not pretty. Long story short, I cried. I hate it when people tell me “Sir, no, there aren’t any…millions of money bucks…in that fountain. Please, leave.” I figured I was being Punk’d, so I ran up and viciously assaulted the closest guy in a trucker hat, not because he looked like Ashton Kutcher, but because he probably thought he did. I wasn’t being Punk’d. I was being Truth’d.

So what do I do? I can’t just give up, right?

…

I was really asking. Could I give up? No, of course not. So, last Monday, or “Funday” as I call it, I heard an ad on the radio advertising advertising opportunities with the CIA. I love James Bond, and I love abbreviations. I lv. abbr.’s One day, I’ll write a blog completely in abbreviations, and they’ll have to close down the internet because of all the traffic to my site. I’m saving that one, though, for when dick jokes aren’t funny anymore. *Shivers*

I applied online, and it took me half an hour. This is roughly 28 minutes more than I’d wanted to spend filling this application out. After filling it out, I clicked “submit” and then opened my wallet, so I could literally watch all the centavos entran mi carpeta. No go. No centavos. No entran. No speaky ingles. So I figured that they were probably going to want to interview me first, to make sure that I actually own a wallet. I was so excited I made this face:

Wait...no, that's not right.

The face I made was closer to this:

There you go. that’s what I’m talkin’ about.

So there I am. I’m waiting. I’m anticipating. I’m respirating. Sure enough, I never get a call from the CIA. I’m not sure why, but they never gave me a ring. I signed up to be a secret recruiter. Pretty much I would of gone overseas to find people who I thought were CIA material and bring them into the fold. Why did I think I would be qualified for this? The same reason anybody thinks about joining the CIA: I really liked The Recruit with Al Pacino and Colin Farrell. What is it about me that’s so un-CIA? Is it that I have a degree in writing and literature? Could it be that I have no military experience whatsoever? Could it possibly be that my last job was listed as a “Salad Cook”? No. I will posit that the CIA is not interested in me because every single staff member is afraid that I would steal their job.

That’s it. Nothing else makes sense. Please call or e-mail your congressman and lobby for my employment in the Central Intelligence Agency, or as I call it (at least until they wise up) the Centrall Intelligence Gay-gency. Get out there and make a difference, kids.

Share this:

Like this:

My eyes burn. They burn with passion for the words that I’m typing right now.

What an arrogant astute thing to say.

When I first became acquainted with the definition of the word “blog,” I began to imagine all the most terrible stereotypes about people who blog: plastic-rimmed glasses, sloppy hair, sweaters, Wilco; also, a firm hatred for all Sylvester Stallone movies and a great passion for the phrase “best___ever!”

But really, this blogging thing isn’t so bad. I figured it would afford me an excellent opportunity to practice informal writing for when I do this….for money. In all likelihood, I’ll look back on this moment five years from now and think of what a great decision it was to start up a blog. It will have afforded me great practice, a good creative outlet, and something to point at in job interviews and say….

“See? This is why you’re not paying me enough.”

“Mr. Irion, we aren’t payingyou anything. This is an interview.”

“Yea, an interview in stupidity.” Here is where I lean back smugly and put my feet up on the desk, kicking some stuff over that I didn’t really mean to. I’m visibly embarrassed.

“Ok, that’s enough.” says the interviewer. He’s getting angry. I decide to lighten up the moment with a joke.

“Oh, come on now…” I pause, allowing him to prepare himself for the tidal wave of hilarity coming his way. He does so by blowing his nose. Gross. “I’m just having a good time.” I say. “I mean, why so serious?” Here I smile and make a scary growly face–that means I’m Heath Ledger.

“I…ok, thank you for your time. Please leave.”

I later get the job, and work there for several months before someone comes to my desk and notifies that I’m trespassing, and that the break room is not my office, and the break room table is not my desk. In an attempt to save my job, I make another joke.

“This company deserves a better class of employee, and I’m gonna give it to ’em.” I make my growly Heath Ledger face.

The employee looks at me in awe. The joke was too funny. It’s shut down his prefontal cortex.